


To Become Perfect

by Syri



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, Trans Character, Trans Yuri Plisetsky, Transphobia, short introspective, trans positivity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 21:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8593636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syri/pseuds/Syri
Summary: Short look into Yurio's head as he dances; set after his return to Russia





	

Yuri enjoyed having the studio to himself, after his instructor had retired for the night and none of her other pupils were around. Honestly at midnight he should have been sleeping but there was a shit chance of that happening. Besides, his new room wasn't homey yet, and by homey he meant not enough of a disaster. Wherever Yuri currently called home at any given time needed a proper roosting for him to truly relax, and his current mess hadn't reached that point yet. He didn't feel like lying in bed staring at another unfamiliar ceiling for 3 hours, shuffling through his music without really focusing on any lyrics, and his favorite social sites were unusually dead right now. A half hour of blandly refreshing the same screens was enough for him to say fuck it and head downstairs to the studio, headphones on. Any music played through the speakers now would just wake her up and he'd get some lecture about abusing his body by not sleeping yadda yadda yadda. 

He flicked on the lights, banks of them gleaming overhead and shining off the floor and the wall of mirrors. A perfect, empty room; good. He wanted some privacy.

Yuri sat his ass down onto the floor, toed off his tiger-striped socks and slipped on his flats; he was already due for a new pair, which just seemed bullshit; it wasn't like he was even en pointe, these fuckers shouldn't wear out that fast. They would do their job for now, though, and he flexed his feet once to get them on just right, then slipped off his t-shirt, careful to not tug out his headphones, selected a new playlist on his phone and tucked it into his bra. He stood, having been lazily stretching on his bed most of the evening while browsing YT for cat videos he'd somehow not seen yet, and with a swelling breath he began his routine. Ballet was not so different from skating; most competitors he knew took dance. For him, the best parts were the same; creating something beautiful with his body, melding himself with what melodies played in his ears to give a perfect picture to what was otherwise unseen. His fingertips to the end of his nose to his hips and knees and ankles, when he moved he was acutely aware of every part of himself, his muscles knowing through training and memory just where each limb should be in relation to another. It was a painting in the air, himself as the color, the brush, the canvas in one, weaving sound into shape with nothing but his form.

Now if only he could mold his body so easily when he wasn't dancing.

1 - 2 - 3 - 4; he counted his spins, his bangs tickling against his face. He wrinkled his nose and thought about pinning them back into the rest of his ponytail but thought better of it; it had taken 2 years to get the balls to grow his hair back out, and it was beautiful, so he might as well get use to it, just like he had to get use to the remarks from the other students in his classes, the skaters at practice.

"Some boy," he could almost hear them whispering in the empty room, shushed voices booming over the music from his phone. 

"She just wants attention" said another.

"I can see why a guy might wanna skate womens, but why's she putting herself in mens? It's just going to be harder to place."

Fuck them.

1 - 2 - 3 - 4. This wasn't his choreographed routine, not for this competition anyway. This was older, a couple seasons back, but the pace was fast, each beat landing a turn or a jump or a graceful arch of his back. He wanted that immersion right now.

Not everyone stuck their nose in his business. Some couldn't care less, and he'd never been afraid in the changing room, but that didn't stop the fact that being like him wasn't the easiest way to go through life in Russia. Hell, he still could barely believe he'd managed to get hormones at 15. Grandpa had fought for him since he was 11, since he started realizing he didn't think he was a girl anymore, but there was only so much to be done. Maybe since he was a window for the world into their culture, maybe his low celebrity status, maybe money, he didn't know, didn't care how he got a jab in his ass every week, so long as he did. 4 months now, and counting, but it didn't quiet his critics.

"What's she gonna do in 5 years when she's 6 foot tall with a beard and boobs?"

"Oh please, like she even HAS anything in that bra to hide!"

Except he did, and those assholes knew it. They'd been the first ones to point it out in the shower when he was 13. God, he'd been a late bloomer compared to the others, that a part of him hoped somehow there'd been a mistake. That maybe he was some sort of intersex, that he could just keep going in this gender limbo, but no. They'd pointed out what he'd been denying, small swellings over his chest which he'd just taken as sore muscles and chafing from his t-shirts; after all, he'd been working on his axles that week, and his newly longer legs were making his landings harsh. 

He told them to go fuck themselves up the ass and hadn't taken his shirt off around them since; there were other girls around if he needed some female company. As boy as he was, guys his age were assholes, and they liked to police his macho level even more than the hags did, snorting derisively at every swipe of mascara or crossed leg. Bastards just wished they could stretch as easy as him without crushing their balls. 

The song hit the chorus, and he leapt, landing softly where a year ago he might have crashed and burned. Fuck them, and their 'shes' and their snide remarks about his hair and his costumes and their nosiness about what was in his shirt. It was their damn problem they didn't want to understand, jealous jackasses just pissed that they couldn't land the spins he could. It didn't matter which hormonal storm his body decided to play hell with, he'd beat them either way, same as that pain in the ass in Japan. Bastard thought he could one up him, just because that cocksucker Victor decided to choose to stay in Asia instead of coming home with him!

He caught a flash of himself in the mirror, his face flushed as he neared the end of the routine, his blonde hair begining to stick to his forehead; eugh, the sweating he could do without, honestly, along with his never-ending desire to eat anything he could get his hands on, but again, worth it. It would be worth it once he grew taller, once his voice stopped cracking, once he stopped having to carry tampons in his bag. He wouldn't give a shit about his breasts then, when so many other things fell into place; he'd just look better than them as he skated better, danced better. He looked fucking cute in a cheetah sports bra and nobody would ever convince him otherwise. Hags. 

...this would be worth it once he trained his way through this, kept his body lean. Victor did it, that piggy in Japan did it, so many others kept their career, and he could do.

Leg raise, sweep it over, back arched, further back, till it almost burns as much as his lungs, stagger back quick and land down into a front split. As the music grew quiet between songs, Yuri panted, held his pose, and then finally let himself relax. He pulled his earbuds out and gently eased himself up, grabbing his towel and his water bottle, wiping his face clean. The bank of mirrors still gleamed across the room, and as he caught his breath, he challenged himself in his reflection, appraising his own dance, and even though he knew he could do better (always better) for a moment, in an adrenaline glow, he praised himself. Perfect. For that moment, alone, with no one to show off for and critique him, he could be perfect, from his fingertips to the end of his nose to his hips and knees and ankles, from the swell of his breasts to the curves of his hips and the ridge starting to form on his throat, he was /fucking perfect./


End file.
